One of the disadvantages of an open plan office seating is that eye contact can easily be made, and conversations can be carried out with someone seated 10 feet away without moving from one’s seat. Think 16 somewhat excitable people in such a setting. And for good measure, add the non-stop blare from a couple of computer speakers. For someone like me, who gets disturbed by the uproar caused by a falling pin, such a work environment can be quite non-conducive to work.
So when, during the day, the decibel levels reach those of a shooting range, I head to the only quiet corner in the entire office – the women’s loo. In the tiny 3’ x 5’ space, sound recedes and focus returns. Scattered thoughts meld and sparks ignite. Now, if there was only a way to fit a computer and a net connection somehow…
So it was a couple of days ago, that I headed to the ‘Thinking Room’ and sat on the only seat available. There was a brief to worked on, and the glimmer of an idea had been forming in the back of my head. I closed my eyes to allow it to take shape, unhindered by thought or movement. The stillness was almost perfect – within and without.
And I began to feel a gentle vibration. Like something from deep within. I could feel it travel from my toes to my temples. Warm spirals of energy. This was an extremely rare experience. Something I’d only read or heard about. I had felt something milder during meditation, but for the first time, I could feel the vibrations so perceptibly. I felt I was on the brink of something momentous. Some great Universal Truths were being revealed to me. I felt connected to the Source and to living things everywhere.
I emerged from Thinking Room, feeling energized and tranquil.
A colleague passing by looked at me and with awe in his voice, asked, “Did you feel it?”
“How did you know?” I asked, suddenly disoriented.
“Apparently, it was a big one in Iran,” he said. “Almost 7.5 on the Richter scale.”
Showing posts with label Just an incident. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Just an incident. Show all posts
Friday, September 26, 2008
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
An Encounter
He entered the hospital waiting room while the nurse was measuring my height and doing some other preliminaries.
“Have you grown taller?” he asked, smiling
I was taken aback by his friendliness as well as by the question.
“Oh, I wish,” I replied.
After the nurse had left, I asked him if he was there to see the same doctor. He said, yes, and that it was his third visit.
“You mean, he didn’t cure you on the first attempt?” I asked, attempting a bit of humour.
“I’m just here for follow ups. I had a brain tumour removed. And I’ve to follow up to ensure everything’s ok up here,” he said, tapping his forehead.
I could have bitten my tongue. But he didn’t seem to mind my weak joke. I noticed there were faint dark crescents below his eyes. Old battle scars.
“That must have been something,” I murmured.
“Well, yeah,” he said, “it was a benign one but it was causing pressure on the brain, so they had to take 80% of it out.”
“And what of the remaining 20%?” I asked
“Well, that’s still there. They’re monitoring it. It’s been 2 ½ years now, and it’s behaving itself. Who knows what the future holds…” he trailed off, still smiling.
The doctor came out of his chamber and asked me to step in. He noticed the other person in the waiting room and waved at him, recognizing him. He waved back.
He looked up and smiled when I came out. I muttered a ‘Good Luck’ before leaving.
20%, I kept thinking. Imagine walking around knowing there’s a latent volcano inside you.
I just wish I’d asked him his name.
“Have you grown taller?” he asked, smiling
I was taken aback by his friendliness as well as by the question.
“Oh, I wish,” I replied.
After the nurse had left, I asked him if he was there to see the same doctor. He said, yes, and that it was his third visit.
“You mean, he didn’t cure you on the first attempt?” I asked, attempting a bit of humour.
“I’m just here for follow ups. I had a brain tumour removed. And I’ve to follow up to ensure everything’s ok up here,” he said, tapping his forehead.
I could have bitten my tongue. But he didn’t seem to mind my weak joke. I noticed there were faint dark crescents below his eyes. Old battle scars.
“That must have been something,” I murmured.
“Well, yeah,” he said, “it was a benign one but it was causing pressure on the brain, so they had to take 80% of it out.”
“And what of the remaining 20%?” I asked
“Well, that’s still there. They’re monitoring it. It’s been 2 ½ years now, and it’s behaving itself. Who knows what the future holds…” he trailed off, still smiling.
The doctor came out of his chamber and asked me to step in. He noticed the other person in the waiting room and waved at him, recognizing him. He waved back.
He looked up and smiled when I came out. I muttered a ‘Good Luck’ before leaving.
20%, I kept thinking. Imagine walking around knowing there’s a latent volcano inside you.
I just wish I’d asked him his name.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Mozart turns mallrat
It's possible to find just about anything in a mall in Dubai. A ski slope, an elephant water clock, and, as I discovered last week, a Philharmonic Orchestra.
It was incredible enough to find that Dubai had a Philharmonic Orchestra, but to have them perform with an Australian Jazz Quartet an ambitious concert titled, 'Jazz meets Mozart' - well, that was almost like finding parking at the mall on a Friday night. Almost.
The lobby of the Dubai Community Theatre and Arts Centre (DUCTAC), just above the ski slope, started filing up by 7.30 p.m. but the concert only began at around 8.30. One easily excused the delay when the musicians began playing. Spellbinding just doesn't begin to describe it. A rousing samba rendition of Mozart's haunting Symphony No. 40 made it impossible to keep ones feet from tapping. But my favourite was the overture from 'The Marriage of Figaro', Unlike the energetic piece originally written by Mozart, the jazzed up version had a slow plaintive beginning with just the lead violinist and the saxophonist which progressed at a steady pace with a few piano solos, and then built up to the familiar crescendo with the entire Orchestra furiously working their instruments.
The conductor, Philip Maier, seemed very self-assured, and the Orchestra never struck a wrong chord. Two hours later, as I was driving back home still humming snatches of melodies played, it struck me that for once being a mall rat wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
It was incredible enough to find that Dubai had a Philharmonic Orchestra, but to have them perform with an Australian Jazz Quartet an ambitious concert titled, 'Jazz meets Mozart' - well, that was almost like finding parking at the mall on a Friday night. Almost.
The lobby of the Dubai Community Theatre and Arts Centre (DUCTAC), just above the ski slope, started filing up by 7.30 p.m. but the concert only began at around 8.30. One easily excused the delay when the musicians began playing. Spellbinding just doesn't begin to describe it. A rousing samba rendition of Mozart's haunting Symphony No. 40 made it impossible to keep ones feet from tapping. But my favourite was the overture from 'The Marriage of Figaro', Unlike the energetic piece originally written by Mozart, the jazzed up version had a slow plaintive beginning with just the lead violinist and the saxophonist which progressed at a steady pace with a few piano solos, and then built up to the familiar crescendo with the entire Orchestra furiously working their instruments.
The conductor, Philip Maier, seemed very self-assured, and the Orchestra never struck a wrong chord. Two hours later, as I was driving back home still humming snatches of melodies played, it struck me that for once being a mall rat wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Where we ring in another 'ear
"Sex... sex...," said the guard at the airport entrance as I was rolling my trolley in.
My blood ran cold. I could scarcely believe that I was being solicited by a security personnel and that too with so many travellers and airport officials milling around. He had an almost bored expression on his face, and didn't flinch when I looked him straight in the eye. Was this what our much touted 'new' airports were all about, I thought indignantly.
I drew myself to my full height, almost standing on tiptoe, preparing to deliver a scathing rebuke on his unseemly behaviour.
He looked uneasy at my steady gaze and said, almost in a puzzled tone, "Sex 751?"
Was this some code, I wondered? Worse, was he bargaining? My mind ran amok with possibilities. The lascivious brute then started pointing to my hand, and I involuntarily looked down, and spotted my ticket and passport. A familiar number on the ticket caught my eye, and I stared at it for another second before the fog lifted.
I was on Flight CX 751.
P.S. Blame the incessant sniffling for affecting my hearing.
P.P.S. Absolute Lee is now FOUR 'EARS OLD. Thanks all of you for being around.
My blood ran cold. I could scarcely believe that I was being solicited by a security personnel and that too with so many travellers and airport officials milling around. He had an almost bored expression on his face, and didn't flinch when I looked him straight in the eye. Was this what our much touted 'new' airports were all about, I thought indignantly.
I drew myself to my full height, almost standing on tiptoe, preparing to deliver a scathing rebuke on his unseemly behaviour.
He looked uneasy at my steady gaze and said, almost in a puzzled tone, "Sex 751?"
Was this some code, I wondered? Worse, was he bargaining? My mind ran amok with possibilities. The lascivious brute then started pointing to my hand, and I involuntarily looked down, and spotted my ticket and passport. A familiar number on the ticket caught my eye, and I stared at it for another second before the fog lifted.
I was on Flight CX 751.
P.S. Blame the incessant sniffling for affecting my hearing.
P.P.S. Absolute Lee is now FOUR 'EARS OLD. Thanks all of you for being around.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Weekend checklist
* Watch Hairspray - check
* Get stuck for an hour in the car park of Deira City Centre - check
* Wear headgear consisting of red cabbage, baby tomatoes and carrots - check
* Wrestle with food processor - check
* Get wireless internet connection at home - check
* Get wireless internet connection which doesn't work - check
* Get a hair trim - check
* Don Ma Leela robes and dispense gratuitous advice - check
* Spend every last dirham in wallet and spare change wallet - check
* Leave wallet in T's place - check
* Help ex-flatmate to move to new quarters - check
* Drive on an empty fuel tank - check
* Drink a mug of toddy - check
* Swear never to drink bottled toddy again because it is S.O.U.R - check
* Drop into church - check
* Update blog - check :-)
* Get stuck for an hour in the car park of Deira City Centre - check
* Wear headgear consisting of red cabbage, baby tomatoes and carrots - check
* Wrestle with food processor - check
* Get wireless internet connection at home - check
* Get wireless internet connection which doesn't work - check
* Get a hair trim - check
* Don Ma Leela robes and dispense gratuitous advice - check
* Spend every last dirham in wallet and spare change wallet - check
* Leave wallet in T's place - check
* Help ex-flatmate to move to new quarters - check
* Drive on an empty fuel tank - check
* Drink a mug of toddy - check
* Swear never to drink bottled toddy again because it is S.O.U.R - check
* Drop into church - check
* Update blog - check :-)
Friday, August 31, 2007
Just one of those weird moments
Time: 7:30 p.m.
Location: The elevator in the office building
I enter and hit the button for the ground floor. The doors open on the 1st floor and a guy enters carrying two enormous garbage bags filled with what looks like shredded paper. He apologises, and I nod. I have no idea what he’s just apologized for. The elevator is fairly large and dry garbage is hardly a bother. As the elevator heads past the mezzanine floor, he turns to me and asks, “You want paint for your fingers?” I look at him and even before I’ve processed the meaning of the question, I shake my head firmly, my ‘I-don’t-talk-to-strangers’ face falling into place. “For leg?” the man persists, although he’s now fairly sure of the answer, because he’s shaking his head and saying no to himself. The doors open and I quickly put as much distance between the janitor-painter and myself before I ask, “Did he mean ‘pain’ by any chance?”
Ever noticed how one weird question inevitably leads to another?
Location: The elevator in the office building
I enter and hit the button for the ground floor. The doors open on the 1st floor and a guy enters carrying two enormous garbage bags filled with what looks like shredded paper. He apologises, and I nod. I have no idea what he’s just apologized for. The elevator is fairly large and dry garbage is hardly a bother. As the elevator heads past the mezzanine floor, he turns to me and asks, “You want paint for your fingers?” I look at him and even before I’ve processed the meaning of the question, I shake my head firmly, my ‘I-don’t-talk-to-strangers’ face falling into place. “For leg?” the man persists, although he’s now fairly sure of the answer, because he’s shaking his head and saying no to himself. The doors open and I quickly put as much distance between the janitor-painter and myself before I ask, “Did he mean ‘pain’ by any chance?”
Ever noticed how one weird question inevitably leads to another?
Monday, August 20, 2007
You know you've got good karma when...
...you arrive at Deira City Centre on a Saturday evening and nail a parking spot within 3 minutes
...you enter the mall bracing yourself for shoppers, smokers and shrieking kids, and instead are greeted by opera singers doing a mesmerising, goosebump-inducing rendition of your favourite Lakme Flower Duet.
... you end up in the shortest queue at the check out counter, and even get a smile from the checkout clerk
... you get a free parking spot not too far from your building even though it's past 11 p.m.
You know your good karma's good run is over when...
... you stagger to your door, arms quivering with grocery bags and realise you've left the keys in the car.
...you enter the mall bracing yourself for shoppers, smokers and shrieking kids, and instead are greeted by opera singers doing a mesmerising, goosebump-inducing rendition of your favourite Lakme Flower Duet.
... you end up in the shortest queue at the check out counter, and even get a smile from the checkout clerk
... you get a free parking spot not too far from your building even though it's past 11 p.m.
You know your good karma's good run is over when...
... you stagger to your door, arms quivering with grocery bags and realise you've left the keys in the car.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Generation Zap!
A friend had this conversation with her 12-year old daughter recently.
Mom: You should start reading P.G. Wodehouse. You’ll like him.
Daughter: Is he the guy who started askjeeves.com?
Mom: You should start reading P.G. Wodehouse. You’ll like him.
Daughter: Is he the guy who started askjeeves.com?
Saturday, January 01, 2005
Happy new beginnings
The tragedy has crept eerily close. A very close friend lost five members of her extended family in Sri Lanka. Only a 9-year old nephew survived. Life has to go on, for his sake, says my friend. But life won’t be the same.
On another level, life surely hasn’t been the same in the last few days. Never before has there been such a collective outpouring of empathy and aid. From convicts in Tihar jail to rickshaw pullers in Chennai to innumerable ordinary citizens (bloggers included), everybody has been a part of the collective relief effort. Most remarkable is the fact that the disaster has shattered decade long standoffs between insurgents and their governments. If ever proof was needed that the world could work together as one, then this is it.
As Spaceman Spiff puts it, ‘Wish 2005 will be a year when nature doesn’t have to turn so militant in order to bring us humans together'.
Wish you all a happy and peace-filled New Year.
P. S. Just wanted to share a Japanese Folk Tale with you.
On another level, life surely hasn’t been the same in the last few days. Never before has there been such a collective outpouring of empathy and aid. From convicts in Tihar jail to rickshaw pullers in Chennai to innumerable ordinary citizens (bloggers included), everybody has been a part of the collective relief effort. Most remarkable is the fact that the disaster has shattered decade long standoffs between insurgents and their governments. If ever proof was needed that the world could work together as one, then this is it.
As Spaceman Spiff puts it, ‘Wish 2005 will be a year when nature doesn’t have to turn so militant in order to bring us humans together'.
Wish you all a happy and peace-filled New Year.
P. S. Just wanted to share a Japanese Folk Tale with you.
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Losing everything
A month and a half ago, a minor fire broke out at my workplace. It was caused by a short circuit in my boss’s cabin. Fortunately, it occurred in the night when no one was around, and even more fortunately, it was spotted by security personnel who quickly contained it even before the fire brigade arrived. But the cabin was completely destroyed. One half was a black, charred mass of paper and wood; the other half was covered with soot and embers. The soft board, once a colourful collage of photographs and Post It’s, was scorched to bits, exposing the wooden frame behind it. The telephone was a mangled, fused heap. There even was a black spot on the 25-foot high ceiling.
My boss was in a mild shock that day. She lamented about losing her papers, photographs and other paraphernalia which she’d accumulated over the last 18 years. As I brushed away the embers from my desk, a sudden fear gripped me. What if the fire had spread to my cubicle which was adjacent to her cabin? My thoughts immediately went to the printouts of all my work neatly stacked in the drawers. I’d harangued the art director for almost a year to collect all those printouts. What if the fire…? I quickly made plans to transport all my work home.
It took a moment for the absurdity of that plan to sink in. If tragedy chose you, there was no escape. I was as vulnerable at home as at any place on earth. The reality and inevitability of loss never hit me harder. I did a quick mental inventory of all the things that were dearest to me. My heart lurched when I thought of my precious books. Anything, but them, I decided.
This half-forgotten incident and the accompanying thoughts came back to me as I watched the tsunami coverage on TV. There was that phrase repeated over and over again… ‘People who have lost everything...’ Amid all the heart-rending scenes of loss, there was one that disturbed me immensely. A Muslim man was offering prayers alone in a corner of a dargah. The reporter mentioned that ‘he’d lost everything’. Everything included three children and all seven grandchildren. He spoke in a sad yet calm voice while the translations appeared on screen. ‘The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. It is the cycle of life.’
Perhaps he was numb with shock, but his calm acceptance disturbed me more than all the grief stricken images I had seen. My mental inventory of a month-and-a-half ago never featured people. It was just too terrifying to do that. I cannot imagine what coping mechanisms he, and others who’ve lost ‘everything’, will use. I cannot imagine what the days ahead will be like when the numbness wears off. I can only pray, and help in a very small way.
P.S. Amazing efforts at Tsunami Help. A never-before reaction to a never-before calamity! Do visit and help.
My boss was in a mild shock that day. She lamented about losing her papers, photographs and other paraphernalia which she’d accumulated over the last 18 years. As I brushed away the embers from my desk, a sudden fear gripped me. What if the fire had spread to my cubicle which was adjacent to her cabin? My thoughts immediately went to the printouts of all my work neatly stacked in the drawers. I’d harangued the art director for almost a year to collect all those printouts. What if the fire…? I quickly made plans to transport all my work home.
It took a moment for the absurdity of that plan to sink in. If tragedy chose you, there was no escape. I was as vulnerable at home as at any place on earth. The reality and inevitability of loss never hit me harder. I did a quick mental inventory of all the things that were dearest to me. My heart lurched when I thought of my precious books. Anything, but them, I decided.
This half-forgotten incident and the accompanying thoughts came back to me as I watched the tsunami coverage on TV. There was that phrase repeated over and over again… ‘People who have lost everything...’ Amid all the heart-rending scenes of loss, there was one that disturbed me immensely. A Muslim man was offering prayers alone in a corner of a dargah. The reporter mentioned that ‘he’d lost everything’. Everything included three children and all seven grandchildren. He spoke in a sad yet calm voice while the translations appeared on screen. ‘The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. It is the cycle of life.’
Perhaps he was numb with shock, but his calm acceptance disturbed me more than all the grief stricken images I had seen. My mental inventory of a month-and-a-half ago never featured people. It was just too terrifying to do that. I cannot imagine what coping mechanisms he, and others who’ve lost ‘everything’, will use. I cannot imagine what the days ahead will be like when the numbness wears off. I can only pray, and help in a very small way.
P.S. Amazing efforts at Tsunami Help. A never-before reaction to a never-before calamity! Do visit and help.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
The loose ends...
... happen to be on a stout rope. One end's tied to a peg on the ceiling, the other around my neck.
After a month of browbeating the cable guy, the connection's been restored. Now, my new computer's crashed. And this cybercafe lacks inspiration.
A spare laptop, anyone??
After a month of browbeating the cable guy, the connection's been restored. Now, my new computer's crashed. And this cybercafe lacks inspiration.
A spare laptop, anyone??
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
In the eye of the beholder
Recently, I accompanied my friend, B, to buy a perfume. Now, B is a determined-but-leisurely shopper. Neither snappish salespeople no closing hours can coax her to rush with her shopping. So I didn't immediately brush off the salesgirl who came up to me and asked, 'Madam, are you interested in a free Revlon makeover?'
After confirming that it was indeed free, and seeing that B was not even halfway through the dozen perfumes, I agreed.
The 'free makeover' zone was the teensy space between the counters of two cosmetic brands. The Beauty Advisor (or the politically corrected 'salesgirl') steered me onto the stool and appraised my face. I was sure it resembled a wrung-out towel, since we'd just left office. Her face was impeccably made up of course, to the point of being a little excessive. Violet eye shadow and a matching shade of lipstick tend to stick out a bit.
'We'll start with a Revlon cleanser and a Revlon toner', she bubbled. A cotton swab with cleanser went over my face, followed by another swab of a melon-scented toner. I could feel my pores tingling.
'Now I'll outline your eyes with the Revlon eyeliner,' she said. Smart girl, I thought. I used to work on a rival cosmetic brand a few years ago, and we'd always recommended makeovers. Now I was getting to test its efficacy.
'You have nice high cheekbones. Blush-on suits you very well,' she remarked. The colour on my cheeks was not entirely from the blush.
A lip pencil came next and outlined the contours of my mouth. Meanwhile, B had taken a break from the fragrances and come over to watch me. Her appreciative expression changed when the Beauty Advisor applied a pale lip gloss. I glanced at the mirror quickly. It looked like I'd swallowed a saucer of mercury. No lip gloss, I shook my head. She looked at me thoughtfully and nodded, 'Let's go for a liquid lip colour. Revlon has recently come out with a new product...'
She applied the lip colour and I looked to B for approval. A knot of curious shoppers had gathered and were watching intently.
'Doesn't make up really suit her?' the savvy Advisor asked B.
Another advisor chimed in, 'Your skin is ideal for make up. See how it highlights your eyes.'
One of the shoppers asked, 'Show me the lipstick you've used on her.'
'Not lipstick, this is a liquid lip colour,' corrected the Advisor.
'Psst.. madam, would you like anything from Maybelline', the advisor who'd chimed in, called out surreptitiously.
I smiled indulgently, seeing right through this whole marketing shtick.
But then I remembered that my eyeliner was almost over. Also, this eye pencil was much better than the one I had at home. And coming to think of it, this bronze liquid eye shadow might come in handy for a dressy evening...
B and I laughed heartily as we exited the store a few minutes later. She was empty handed; I was 700 bucks lighter.
Nothing like a free makeover to perk up an evening.
After confirming that it was indeed free, and seeing that B was not even halfway through the dozen perfumes, I agreed.
The 'free makeover' zone was the teensy space between the counters of two cosmetic brands. The Beauty Advisor (or the politically corrected 'salesgirl') steered me onto the stool and appraised my face. I was sure it resembled a wrung-out towel, since we'd just left office. Her face was impeccably made up of course, to the point of being a little excessive. Violet eye shadow and a matching shade of lipstick tend to stick out a bit.
'We'll start with a Revlon cleanser and a Revlon toner', she bubbled. A cotton swab with cleanser went over my face, followed by another swab of a melon-scented toner. I could feel my pores tingling.
'Now I'll outline your eyes with the Revlon eyeliner,' she said. Smart girl, I thought. I used to work on a rival cosmetic brand a few years ago, and we'd always recommended makeovers. Now I was getting to test its efficacy.
'You have nice high cheekbones. Blush-on suits you very well,' she remarked. The colour on my cheeks was not entirely from the blush.
A lip pencil came next and outlined the contours of my mouth. Meanwhile, B had taken a break from the fragrances and come over to watch me. Her appreciative expression changed when the Beauty Advisor applied a pale lip gloss. I glanced at the mirror quickly. It looked like I'd swallowed a saucer of mercury. No lip gloss, I shook my head. She looked at me thoughtfully and nodded, 'Let's go for a liquid lip colour. Revlon has recently come out with a new product...'
She applied the lip colour and I looked to B for approval. A knot of curious shoppers had gathered and were watching intently.
'Doesn't make up really suit her?' the savvy Advisor asked B.
Another advisor chimed in, 'Your skin is ideal for make up. See how it highlights your eyes.'
One of the shoppers asked, 'Show me the lipstick you've used on her.'
'Not lipstick, this is a liquid lip colour,' corrected the Advisor.
'Psst.. madam, would you like anything from Maybelline', the advisor who'd chimed in, called out surreptitiously.
I smiled indulgently, seeing right through this whole marketing shtick.
But then I remembered that my eyeliner was almost over. Also, this eye pencil was much better than the one I had at home. And coming to think of it, this bronze liquid eye shadow might come in handy for a dressy evening...
B and I laughed heartily as we exited the store a few minutes later. She was empty handed; I was 700 bucks lighter.
Nothing like a free makeover to perk up an evening.
Saturday, April 10, 2004
Sorry Enrique… but I’m Not In Love
Enrique got me in the news recently.
It was quite unexpected. I’ve been avoiding him ever since he said he was coming to Mumbai. And all along, I’ve been stonily indifferent to his breathless entreaties, ‘I can be your hero baby’…
So I was a tad uncomfortable queuing up for passes for his show at the music store. Working in close proximity to a music store and having friends who are besotted with Enrique can be doubly disadvantageous. Still, I am the obliging sorts.
As I waited, I spotted an odd couple. The girl wore a lavender shirt and black trousers. Ditto for the guy. Peculiar dress code, I thought. At that moment they turned. Lavender Boy was gripping a video camera and Lavender Girl, a boom mike. And they were making a bee line for me…
Lavender Girl: I’m from Aaj Tak. Are you buying passes for the Enrique concert?
Surprised Lee: But these are for a friend, not me.
Lavender Girl: That’s ok. We just need footage.”
I’ve been called ‘background’ and ‘extra’ before. ‘Footage’ was a new insult.
I was about to protest again when the latent wicked streak began bubbling. The idea of ‘acting’ like a smitten groupie appealed. I once had a bit part in a winning play in College. And the arclights hadn’t dimmed ever since.
Ok, I will be Footage, I told Lavender Girl.
Out went the I-wish-I-was-elsewhere look. Replaced by an ‘Enrique-you’re-my-hero-baby melting-eyes tremulous-mouth’ look. Lavender Boy swung the camera this way and that to capture each nuance.
The guy in front of me bought 13 tickets worth Rs.1200 each. I hoped the camera didn’t catch that momentary flicker in my lovelorn gaze. The counter staff was saying, “Everyone’s buying the Rs. 1200 passes. We’ve only sold 9 booklets of Rs. 800 as compared to 20 of Rs. 1200." Wow, Enrique sure doesn’t miss ME.
It was my turn. The staff handed over the passes with a flourish. I accepted them with a flourish.
The boom mike was thrust under my nose. A small knot of people had gathered to watch. I patted my unruly curls in place.
Lavender Girl: Aap ye concert mein kyon jaana chahte hai?
ULP! I belatedly remembered it was Aaj Tak. I would have to speak in Hindi. My Hindi is a trifle rusty, corrupted by Bambaiyya and susceptible to gender bloopers when nervous. But seasoned performers aren’t fazed by trifling issues like these.
Hammy Lee (in Hindi): Um… I’m a big fan of Enrique. I love his songs. I love his music videos.
Lavender Girl: Most of Enrique’s fans are teenagers and teenyboppers. So what makes you such a fan?
Indignation momentarily nudged out nervousness and lovelorn-ness.
Indignant Lee: Lady, THOSE are laugh lines. And these glasses give me a severe look. So just what are you trying to insinuate?
But Indignant Lee only sputters and fumes in silence.
Hammy Lee: Erm… I’m a big fan of Enrique. I love his songs. I love his music videos.
Lavender Girl: “Have you been for other concerts before?”
Having almost got attacked by crazed fans at a UB40 concert some years ago, I didn’t care to repeat that experience. But while we’re acting here…
Hammy Lee: Yes, I’ve been for UB40… and Bryan Adams.
A belated, unsuccessful attempt to sound cool.
Lavender Girl gestures to Lavender Boy to stop filming. Whew, I thought, about time. The act was beginning to wear thin.
Lavender Girl: Could you please say on camera that you liked these concerts and you’re sure that Enrique will be even better?
Indignant Lee: What?! You’re asking me to lie? On national television? Is this HOW you gather news?
Lavender Girl: Rolling…
Hammy Lee: Yes I loved Bryan Adams and UB40 and I’m sure Enrique isse bhi better rahega.
Note to viewers: If you’re catching the news on Aaj Tak on the pre-Enrique concert hype and spot one respondent from Mumbai with red cheeks and a very very long nose… that’s me.
It was quite unexpected. I’ve been avoiding him ever since he said he was coming to Mumbai. And all along, I’ve been stonily indifferent to his breathless entreaties, ‘I can be your hero baby’…
So I was a tad uncomfortable queuing up for passes for his show at the music store. Working in close proximity to a music store and having friends who are besotted with Enrique can be doubly disadvantageous. Still, I am the obliging sorts.
As I waited, I spotted an odd couple. The girl wore a lavender shirt and black trousers. Ditto for the guy. Peculiar dress code, I thought. At that moment they turned. Lavender Boy was gripping a video camera and Lavender Girl, a boom mike. And they were making a bee line for me…
Lavender Girl: I’m from Aaj Tak. Are you buying passes for the Enrique concert?
Surprised Lee: But these are for a friend, not me.
Lavender Girl: That’s ok. We just need footage.”
I’ve been called ‘background’ and ‘extra’ before. ‘Footage’ was a new insult.
I was about to protest again when the latent wicked streak began bubbling. The idea of ‘acting’ like a smitten groupie appealed. I once had a bit part in a winning play in College. And the arclights hadn’t dimmed ever since.
Ok, I will be Footage, I told Lavender Girl.
Out went the I-wish-I-was-elsewhere look. Replaced by an ‘Enrique-you’re-my-hero-baby melting-eyes tremulous-mouth’ look. Lavender Boy swung the camera this way and that to capture each nuance.
The guy in front of me bought 13 tickets worth Rs.1200 each. I hoped the camera didn’t catch that momentary flicker in my lovelorn gaze. The counter staff was saying, “Everyone’s buying the Rs. 1200 passes. We’ve only sold 9 booklets of Rs. 800 as compared to 20 of Rs. 1200." Wow, Enrique sure doesn’t miss ME.
It was my turn. The staff handed over the passes with a flourish. I accepted them with a flourish.
The boom mike was thrust under my nose. A small knot of people had gathered to watch. I patted my unruly curls in place.
Lavender Girl: Aap ye concert mein kyon jaana chahte hai?
ULP! I belatedly remembered it was Aaj Tak. I would have to speak in Hindi. My Hindi is a trifle rusty, corrupted by Bambaiyya and susceptible to gender bloopers when nervous. But seasoned performers aren’t fazed by trifling issues like these.
Hammy Lee (in Hindi): Um… I’m a big fan of Enrique. I love his songs. I love his music videos.
Lavender Girl: Most of Enrique’s fans are teenagers and teenyboppers. So what makes you such a fan?
Indignation momentarily nudged out nervousness and lovelorn-ness.
Indignant Lee: Lady, THOSE are laugh lines. And these glasses give me a severe look. So just what are you trying to insinuate?
But Indignant Lee only sputters and fumes in silence.
Hammy Lee: Erm… I’m a big fan of Enrique. I love his songs. I love his music videos.
Lavender Girl: “Have you been for other concerts before?”
Having almost got attacked by crazed fans at a UB40 concert some years ago, I didn’t care to repeat that experience. But while we’re acting here…
Hammy Lee: Yes, I’ve been for UB40… and Bryan Adams.
A belated, unsuccessful attempt to sound cool.
Lavender Girl gestures to Lavender Boy to stop filming. Whew, I thought, about time. The act was beginning to wear thin.
Lavender Girl: Could you please say on camera that you liked these concerts and you’re sure that Enrique will be even better?
Indignant Lee: What?! You’re asking me to lie? On national television? Is this HOW you gather news?
Lavender Girl: Rolling…
Hammy Lee: Yes I loved Bryan Adams and UB40 and I’m sure Enrique isse bhi better rahega.
Note to viewers: If you’re catching the news on Aaj Tak on the pre-Enrique concert hype and spot one respondent from Mumbai with red cheeks and a very very long nose… that’s me.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Wine, Woman and Song
Dragging oneself to town on a lazy Sunday morning for a workshop, might seem like a terrible curse to some. But when you’re sitting in a conference hall with pen, paper and four wine glasses in front of you, the injustice is a little tolerable. Actually, make that, very welcome.
It was the Sula Wine Appreciation Workshop and India’s best known female bartender was holding court, seated on a bar stool. “What do you want to know about wine?”, she rasped. And 19 would-be connoisseurs spewed forth their questions:
“I know that there are red wines and white wines. Tell me more.”
“I was once asked, ‘What’s your grape?’. What does that mean and how do I ask such expert questions?”
“All I know is that it bears an expensive price tag. How do I discern?”
For my part, I wanted to graduate beyond Goa Port Wine. I wanted to be able to order French wine with a certain sangfroid and after delicately sipping it, pronounce loftily, ‘Mmm… the finish is dry.’
So there I sat, ears cocked and pen poised as Shatbi differentiated between table wines (red, white and rose), sparkling wines (like champagne) and fortified wines (where alcohol was added during fermentation to give it a sweet taste. Example, port wine.)
What gives each wine its distinctive taste? The grape variety, of course. The ‘cheat sheet’ listed all the major varieties from Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc and Gewurztraminer for white wines and Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Pinot Noir for red. This exercise of rolling our tongue around slippery French pronunciations primed us for the tasting that followed.
We started with a white wine, Madera. Everyone stared respectfully at the pale liquid being poured.
“Sniff it”, said Shatbi, plunging her nose deep into the glass. “What do you smell?”
Um… wine, I thought.
But the others seemed to have more perceptive nostrils.
‘Pineapple’
‘Jackfruit’
‘Rotten jackfruit’ (Had they been sipping already?!)
“Now, inhale and sip, and swirl it in your mouth”.
I did and the liquid imploded in my mouth. Sluggish tastebuds did the high-five as the heady vapours invaded my mouth and nose. The second sip singed a glowing trail all the way down my throat.
A Chenin Blanc followed. My sensitised nostrils now discerned the aroma of litchis. It also seemed to go down easier than the previous wine. A-ha, I thought, two wines down and I can already tell the difference. Next came a Riesling and a Sauvignon Blanc. And by this time, everyone was in high spirits. People began to detect the aroma of ‘turpentine’, ‘bookstores’ and even ‘new shoes’!
Lunch was accompanied by a sparkling Sula Brut. And post lunch, we went back to work (ha ha!) this time on red wines. Reds, we learned, are more complex and require mature taste buds. Also, one had to learn to bandy words like body, structure and depth.
We started with a Rose (pronounced Ro-say), Sula Blush Zinfandel, a delectable pink wine that was slightly sweet and slightly tart. Sniff, swirl and two swallows later I knew I’d found MY grape!
The Merlot which followed had a pungent aroma, like varnish. And also left an acerbic aftertaste. Cabernet Shiraz was warm and spicy. Full-bodied with a dry finish. I couldn’t remember the last wine we tried, smitten as I was by the Zinfandel.
Armed with information and fortified with wine, J & I tottered out and made our way to Tata Theatre. The Bombay Chamber Orchestra along with musicians from Amsterdam and a Russian pianist were playing Beethoven’s 2nd Symphony and Rachmaninov’s spirited Piano Concerto No. 2. A treat for the already heightened senses! We listened spellbound as wave after wave of exquisite music washed over us, rendering us even more light-headed, if that were possible.
Some Sundays don’t get more di-vine!
It was the Sula Wine Appreciation Workshop and India’s best known female bartender was holding court, seated on a bar stool. “What do you want to know about wine?”, she rasped. And 19 would-be connoisseurs spewed forth their questions:
“I know that there are red wines and white wines. Tell me more.”
“I was once asked, ‘What’s your grape?’. What does that mean and how do I ask such expert questions?”
“All I know is that it bears an expensive price tag. How do I discern?”
For my part, I wanted to graduate beyond Goa Port Wine. I wanted to be able to order French wine with a certain sangfroid and after delicately sipping it, pronounce loftily, ‘Mmm… the finish is dry.’
So there I sat, ears cocked and pen poised as Shatbi differentiated between table wines (red, white and rose), sparkling wines (like champagne) and fortified wines (where alcohol was added during fermentation to give it a sweet taste. Example, port wine.)
What gives each wine its distinctive taste? The grape variety, of course. The ‘cheat sheet’ listed all the major varieties from Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc and Gewurztraminer for white wines and Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Pinot Noir for red. This exercise of rolling our tongue around slippery French pronunciations primed us for the tasting that followed.
We started with a white wine, Madera. Everyone stared respectfully at the pale liquid being poured.
“Sniff it”, said Shatbi, plunging her nose deep into the glass. “What do you smell?”
Um… wine, I thought.
But the others seemed to have more perceptive nostrils.
‘Pineapple’
‘Jackfruit’
‘Rotten jackfruit’ (Had they been sipping already?!)
“Now, inhale and sip, and swirl it in your mouth”.
I did and the liquid imploded in my mouth. Sluggish tastebuds did the high-five as the heady vapours invaded my mouth and nose. The second sip singed a glowing trail all the way down my throat.
A Chenin Blanc followed. My sensitised nostrils now discerned the aroma of litchis. It also seemed to go down easier than the previous wine. A-ha, I thought, two wines down and I can already tell the difference. Next came a Riesling and a Sauvignon Blanc. And by this time, everyone was in high spirits. People began to detect the aroma of ‘turpentine’, ‘bookstores’ and even ‘new shoes’!
Lunch was accompanied by a sparkling Sula Brut. And post lunch, we went back to work (ha ha!) this time on red wines. Reds, we learned, are more complex and require mature taste buds. Also, one had to learn to bandy words like body, structure and depth.
We started with a Rose (pronounced Ro-say), Sula Blush Zinfandel, a delectable pink wine that was slightly sweet and slightly tart. Sniff, swirl and two swallows later I knew I’d found MY grape!
The Merlot which followed had a pungent aroma, like varnish. And also left an acerbic aftertaste. Cabernet Shiraz was warm and spicy. Full-bodied with a dry finish. I couldn’t remember the last wine we tried, smitten as I was by the Zinfandel.
Armed with information and fortified with wine, J & I tottered out and made our way to Tata Theatre. The Bombay Chamber Orchestra along with musicians from Amsterdam and a Russian pianist were playing Beethoven’s 2nd Symphony and Rachmaninov’s spirited Piano Concerto No. 2. A treat for the already heightened senses! We listened spellbound as wave after wave of exquisite music washed over us, rendering us even more light-headed, if that were possible.
Some Sundays don’t get more di-vine!
Monday, October 06, 2003
Hirsute Pursuits
To use a very bad pun, I had a hair-raising experience at the beauty salon yesterday.
I had gone for my bi-monthly hair trim to this parlour that I’ve been frequenting for 11 years now. R, the lady who runs it, is quite competent and very reasonable too. Since I’m not one to experiment with styles and hues, I ask for the same cut with just a variation or two.
So, yesterday in the middle of the snip routine, we got around to the exorbitant rates that some parlours charge. ‘Can you imagine paying Rs. 800 for just a regular hair trim?’, I asked a little self-righteously. I expected she’d have something to add about the unjustified cost too. On the contrary, I found her springing to the defence of the hair divas. What you don’t realise, she chastised me, is that you’re paying for more than just the ambience and the name.
And that’s when she dropped the bombshell. ‘Take this scissors for instance’, she said halting her efforts at carving my wild curls into a chic bob. My untrained eye saw a pair of metal scissors. ‘This piece alone costs 20,000 rupees’. My jaw plummeted to the hair strewn floor. Twenty thousand, I coughed. Twenty, with three chubby zeroes following it???
Wha-how-whe-…. The questions came out in a rush. She picked a lopped off lock from my shoulder and demonstrated. The hair snipped though it with just a whisper of a crunch. The kind you hear when someone bites delicately into a cucumber sandwich. A regular Fiskars, I presumed, would sound like a cement mixer in comparison. But dulcet sounds aside, I learned there were other reasons to invest in a pair of shears worth 20,000 greenbacks. The cut is a lot smoother because the hair doesn’t recoil into unsightly curls. You can cut hair in a geometrically-precise straight line. It’s ergonomic too, not letting stress build up in the masterly fingers, wrist or arm.
I was still struggling to digest this information about a humble pair of scissors. With a flick of a wrist, she then dropped the second bombshell. ‘Actually, this pair of scissors is nothing compared to the one I’d set my heart on in Paris’, she sighed as she snipped over my ears. Apparently, it was hewn from pure marble and cost, hold your jaw, one lakh rupees. Just holding it, she mooned, was heavenly.
‘There’, she said, as she turned off the blow dryer and fluffed my hair, ‘what do you think?’ It was the same cut I’d had for the past year or so. But now, coming to think of it, there was something different about it.
I had gone for my bi-monthly hair trim to this parlour that I’ve been frequenting for 11 years now. R, the lady who runs it, is quite competent and very reasonable too. Since I’m not one to experiment with styles and hues, I ask for the same cut with just a variation or two.
So, yesterday in the middle of the snip routine, we got around to the exorbitant rates that some parlours charge. ‘Can you imagine paying Rs. 800 for just a regular hair trim?’, I asked a little self-righteously. I expected she’d have something to add about the unjustified cost too. On the contrary, I found her springing to the defence of the hair divas. What you don’t realise, she chastised me, is that you’re paying for more than just the ambience and the name.
And that’s when she dropped the bombshell. ‘Take this scissors for instance’, she said halting her efforts at carving my wild curls into a chic bob. My untrained eye saw a pair of metal scissors. ‘This piece alone costs 20,000 rupees’. My jaw plummeted to the hair strewn floor. Twenty thousand, I coughed. Twenty, with three chubby zeroes following it???
Wha-how-whe-…. The questions came out in a rush. She picked a lopped off lock from my shoulder and demonstrated. The hair snipped though it with just a whisper of a crunch. The kind you hear when someone bites delicately into a cucumber sandwich. A regular Fiskars, I presumed, would sound like a cement mixer in comparison. But dulcet sounds aside, I learned there were other reasons to invest in a pair of shears worth 20,000 greenbacks. The cut is a lot smoother because the hair doesn’t recoil into unsightly curls. You can cut hair in a geometrically-precise straight line. It’s ergonomic too, not letting stress build up in the masterly fingers, wrist or arm.
I was still struggling to digest this information about a humble pair of scissors. With a flick of a wrist, she then dropped the second bombshell. ‘Actually, this pair of scissors is nothing compared to the one I’d set my heart on in Paris’, she sighed as she snipped over my ears. Apparently, it was hewn from pure marble and cost, hold your jaw, one lakh rupees. Just holding it, she mooned, was heavenly.
‘There’, she said, as she turned off the blow dryer and fluffed my hair, ‘what do you think?’ It was the same cut I’d had for the past year or so. But now, coming to think of it, there was something different about it.
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